Forgiven
by phoenixqueen
Summary: After the death of his oldest friend, Erik Lensherr returns to the one place he thought of as home to pay his final respects, only to learn that Charles was waiting for him all along.
1. Chapter 1

**Forgiven**

_Disclaimer__: I do not own anything in this story. All references to X-Men: First Class belong to Marvel and Fox._

_Summary__: Inspired by the song "Forgiven" by Within Temptation. After the death of his oldest friend, Erik Lensherr returns to the one place he thought of as home to pay his final respects, only to learn that Charles was waiting for him all along. *Note* If you have never heard this song before, I suggest you listen to it at least once…it's heart-breakingly beautiful._

_Rating__: PG-13_

_Author's Note__: Despite the fact that the song this story is based off of _is_ a love song, this is __**not**__ a Charik. I do __**not**__ write slash. In this story, Erik and Charles were good friends and thought of each other as brothers, __**nothing more**__._

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><p><em>Xavier Institute for Gifted Students…Westchester, New York… August 2003…<em>

It was amazing how little the house had changed in the last forty years. Oh, there had been _some_ changes in order to convert the stately mansion into a proper school. Basketball and tennis courts had been added, a small parking lot – cleverly screened from view with hedges and rose bushes – had been put in near the front of the building, and he could see several satellite dishes on the top of the building…but the main body of the house was relatively untouched. He wondered if the same was true on the inside, but then realized that it wouldn't matter. The biggest change had already happened, but it wasn't a change that could ever be reversed.

Not since Charles Xavier had died.

The man who had dedicated his life to his students, to helping make the world safe for mutants and humans to live in peace; the man who had been the driving force behind the Institute was gone – and without him, the school would never be the same. And that thought hurt him, deep in his soul.

Erik stood at the wrought-iron gates of the school, looking through them at the few students who were crossing the lawn. At one time in his life, he'd thought that he would be here, alongside Charles, helping to train and teach mutants to control their powers safely – until Shaw had unleashed his plan to start World War III and exposed them to the public. Shaw's plan might have been stopped, but the damage had been done, and with it, any hope he might have had for living a peaceful life with a man who had been his best friend and the closest thing he'd ever had to a brother.

He had been there when Charles had died, but he had not had the opportunity to do anything other than leave with Jean Grey so that he could carry out his goal. He hadn't bothered to come to the memorial service, since he would not have been welcome. But now – now that he had been "cured" and was no threat to the students – perhaps now he would be able to get the chance to pay his final respects to his dearest friend and mourn the loss of a man who had been a shining light in his dark world.

Pushing open the gate, he began to trudge up the drive, bitterly remembering a time when he would simply have manipulated the magnetic fields and flown up to the house. Now he was forced to approach on foot, humbled and beaten – and he knew he would be stopped long before he made it all the way to the mansion's doors. There was no way they would miss him, not with all of the security that was in place.

Indeed, before he had even made it halfway up the drive, he saw the mansion's door flung open and Wolverine came bounding out, full of righteous rage and bristling with protective instincts. Erik stopped and waited. There was no point in going any further, since Wolverine wouldn't hesitate to disembowel him if he tried to get any closer to the school without a damn good reason.

Wolverine ran right up to him. "You! What the fuck are you doing here?"

He scoffed. "I've come to pay my respects, nothing else. Your children and your team are in no danger from me, Wolverine."

"Get the hell off this property. You're not welcome and you have no business being here," the feral mutant ordered.

Erik knew he was risking his life, but this was something that he _had _to do. And that was why he didn't hesitate with his response. "No."

Wolverine growled low in his throat, and with an ominous SNICKT the adamantium claws extended from his hands. "I'm not going to warn you again. Get out of here or you'll be getting a taste of these."

"Logan!"

Storm and Beast raced out of the mansion at the first sign of the brewing conflict. They stopped alongside their teammate and glared at Erik, although neither showed any sign of wanting to attack. Yet.

"What do you want, Magneto?" Storm's voice was as icy as the frozen north wind that she could summon in a heartbeat. Her eyes were already beginning to pale as she prepared to summon nature's wrath to her aid if it proved necessary. The wind picked up slightly, blowing her long white tresses across her face, and he could see dark clouds beginning to form in the distance.

He knew his tone was bitter when he replied, but he couldn't help it. "I am no longer Magneto. That was stripped away from me along with my power." He glared at Beast, who had been the one to inject him. "It is ironic that when I first met you, you were trying to "cure" yourself, yet _I_ am the one who ends up "cured" is it not?"

A growl rumbled low in Beast's throat. "What do you want, Erik?"

With an effort, he fought to keep control of himself, somehow hearing Charles' voice out of the past, reminding him to calm his mind. Charles would never have tolerated a fight like this on these grounds. The telepath would have frozen everyone, lectured them until they understood why he was displeased, and then released them to apologize and begin acting like mature adults. It would be so different without him now. "I have come to pay my respects to Charles and to mourn my only friend."

Beast's aggressive stance relaxed somewhat, although he still appeared wary as they studied each other.

Wolverine stepped forward, his claws coming up again. "I told you to get the hell out of here."

Erik didn't flinch. Less than a week ago, he could have picked Wolverine up by all of the metal on his bones and tossed him away as easily as he would have tossed a penny. But just because he could no longer manipulate metal didn't mean that he was going to allow the other mutant to intimidate him. Instead, he kept his eyes trained on Beast. "Please, McCoy. Grant me this one request and I will leave and never come back." Erik Lensherr didn't beg, had never begged for anything in his life, but this was something that he _had_ to do.

Beast seemed to be looking for something as they gazed at each other, before he finally spoke. "Let him pass, Logan."

Wolverine whipped his head around to stare at Beast. "Have you forgotten what this asshole has done? What he did to Rogue at Liberty Island, or to the Professor at Alkali Lake? Not to mention Jean? The only way he's getting past me is over my dead body."

Beast snarled and grabbed Logan by his shirt front, lifting him into the air and giving him a _very_ clear look at his fangs. "Back off, Logan, or you're going to get a taste of _my_ claws. No one here knows better what Magneto did to the Professor than me. I was there the day it happened. But that was Magneto, not Erik. I'm the most senior of the X-Men here, and I am _ordering _you to stand down." He lowered Logan back to the ground before he looked at Erik again. "Come with me."

Erik was actually surprised by that reaction. The Hank McCoy he remembered had been fairly passive and mild-mannered. "It seems you finally set the beast free. I'm impressed."

Beast snarled again. "Don't mock me Erik. I am not in the mood right now, and I am not above ripping your throat out if you don't show a little respect." He turned and started to lead the way back towards the mansion.

"Hank!" Storm protested; her stance was still tense, as if she expected Magneto to attack while his back was turned.

Beast turned his head to look at the weather manipulator. "Charles would want this, Ororo. He designed this place to be a safe haven for everyone, mutant or human. _Magneto_ is not welcome here, but Erik once called this place home, no matter how briefly." The blue-furred mutant closed his eyes for a moment before he looked back at her. "Trust me, Storm. Charles left instructions with me about this day. He knew it would probably come sooner or later."

Storm frowned. "He did?"

"In his…in his will. The envelope his lawyer gave me." Hank gave them a fixed, intense look. "I'll take care of this. You two make sure the children stay away from the garden and the Professor's office until Erik leaves."

Logan growled again. "You're gonna take him _inside_?"

"Logan!" Beast snapped, his temper getting the better of him. "It was what the Professor wanted. I'm just going to fulfill his last wishes."

Storm and Wolverine gave him skeptical looks, but finally nodded and turned back to the house to corral the children, even though Logan was still glaring at Erik, which the former metal-bender ignored. He was more interested in the fact that Charles had apparently planned for this day, if he'd left instructions about it in his will. He couldn't have possibly known that he would die going after Jean when she came back. Granted, Charles' telepathy was – or rather, _had been_, Erik realized with a flash of pain – so strong that at times it did seem like he was all knowing and foresighted, but Erik knew better. Charles' powers had been limited to the ability to read, communicate with, and control minds, including projecting illusions and astral projection. Granted, the sheer number of minds that he could control at one time was quite astonishing, as was his range, both with and without Cerebro, but he had not been all-knowing.

"Erik, I want you to understand something very clearly," Hank said as he started to head around to the side of the mansion. "I am only doing this because Charles asked me to. If I had any choice I would have thrown you out on your ass by now. As far as I am concerned, you gave up any rights you had to be here that day in Cuba."

"If you're looking for an apology, McCoy, you won't get it. I don't regret my decision and I still believe that I made the right one. I _do_ regret what my decision cost Charles. I have never forgotten that day, nor forgiven myself for what I took from him."

Beast didn't say anything as they continued along the side of the house. Erik could see faces of the students pressed up against the window, watching him alertly, but he deliberately ignored them, wanting them to understand that he could care less about what they thought of him. He was more interested in comparing his memories of the mansion to the current layout of the grounds. Like the rest of the house, very little of the outside had changed. Erik recognized the familiar paths, the view of the lake. The giant satellite dish was gone, but he couldn't help the small smile that crossed his face as he remembered pushing Banshee off of it in order to get him to fly. Other than that, only some of the landscaping had changed – no doubt some of the shrubbery and gardens had suffered over the years as the hundreds of young mutants Charles had welcomed into his home struggled to learn control.

But just there…next to the stone railing where he and Charles had stood the last day before Cuba, an area of lawn between the railing and the house had been boxed in with a low hedge. In the center of the space two obelisks had been erected, made of the same creamy stone as the railing and the exterior of the house. The stone closest to him was mostly blank, although there was a bronze oval in the center that was simply emblazoned with a large X.

Erik stepped closer to the small memorial garden and studied the stone more closely. Underneath the bronze disk words had been carefully, yet skillfully carved into the stone.

_**Gone, but Never Forgotten**_

_Armando Muñoz, 1962 – Darwin_

_Scott Summers, 2003 – Cyclops_

_Dr. Jean Grey, M.D., 2003 – Marvel Girl_

Erik looked over at Beast, surprised, as he read the names on the stone. "You put Darwin's name on?" He still remembered the lanky young man who had been one of their first recruits. With a generally cheerful attitude, even regarding his special gift to adapt to his environment, Charles had had high hopes for the young man. It was unfortunate that Darwin had given his life to save Mystique, Havok, Beast, and Banshee from Shaw.

"It was Charles' wish," Beast replied, his voice thick. No doubt he also remembered the brave young man who had been the first casualty in their war. "It didn't matter that none of the students except for Alex, Sean and I knew him. Charles felt that he should be remembered, since we were never able to bury him. We never had a memorial stone up until we heard about Scott, but once we realized that Scott was dead, we knew it was something that we had to do…and there was no question that we also needed to add Darwin to it. Even though no one here will ever know the details of what he did, it's enough to know that as long as this stone stands, there will be _some_ record that he existed, and that he was one of the first X-Men."

"How very like Charles," Erik said, but with no venom in his voice. In this matter, he had to agree. Darwin deserved to be remembered and immortalized as the first sacrifice in the war between humans and mutants. He bravely gave his life to save his fellow mutants, and for that alone, he should be honored.

His gaze went up to study the names again. "Does Havok know about Cyclops?"

Beast nodded grimly. "Of course. He's in England now, but we notified him as soon as we knew what had happened. We…we couldn't give him a body to bury, but we made sure that he would know that his brother would be remembered for everything that he gave to the team and the school. Alex is on assignment, and he couldn't get away to come to the memorial service, but he'll be here within a few days. We were only able to get a message to him because of the Professor's telepathy…but Alex still doesn't know about Charles…and I don't know how I am going to tell him."

"And Banshee?"

"He knows too. He and Alex are partners, working together for Interpol, so neither of them has been here yet."

Erik sighed. He knew all of this was simply a delaying tactic. He stepped past the first stone, over to the second one. Although it was made of the same stone, this one had a flattened slab in front of it, on which a small eternal flame burned. An oval disk similar to the first one was also placed on the stone, although this one held a relief of Charles' profile. Bright yellow marigolds had been planted along either side of the slab, and someone had left a single white rose next to the flame.

Beneath the bronze oval was the inscription:

_Charles Francis Xavier, PhD_

_Founder, Headmaster, Teacher, Father_

_1932 – 2003_

_He was a shining light to the broken world he sought to heal._

Erik studied the simple, yet elegant marker. In every way, it was the epitome of the man and who he was. Simple, dignified, and sturdy. He couldn't believe that he was standing here however, yet the date on the stone spoke the truth. Besides, he couldn't deny Charles' death. He had witnessed it himself, after all.

McCoy had backed off, giving him privacy while not leaving him alone. There was no trust between them, after all. But Hank McCoy had known Charles for as long as he had, and understood the history between them.

Erik had never been one to show emotion. Shaw had seen to that forty years ago in the camps. The last time he had cried had been a few months after Cuba, when he had learned that the bullet had paralyzed Charles. But now he found himself sinking roughly to his knees in the grass in front of the marker.

"I am sorry, Charles. You have no idea how much I wish things had been different. I still believe that I made the right choice, but I wish that I could have convinced you to join me. You and I, working together, could have changed the world." He thought about the way Charles had died, killed by his own student. Charles had loved his students. They had been his family, as the inscription on the marker attested. "Of all the things I envisioned for the future, this is not the fate I would have wished for you, old friend. I honestly thought that we would get the chance to reconcile one day – that you would see that I was right."

For a moment, anger welled up in him. "You were a fool, Charles – a damned, idealistic fool!" He dug his fingers into the grass, wishing he had his powers so that he could mangle some metal and vent. "The humans feared us, tried to kill us, yet you didn't strike back! Why?"

He thought about their long struggle, from that day on the beach, through the years of trying to amass power and resources with the X-Men always there to stop him, to sending Mystique into the school with the toxin for Cerebro, to using Charles to kill the humans…

Ever since that day in Cuba, almost every single one of their interactions had been in a conflict of some sort. Although, after Cuba, Charles was rarely at the fights. It had almost always been the X-Men who had come in his stead. At the time, Erik had assumed that it was simply due to Charles' lack of mobility and his students' overprotective attitude where their professor was concerned.

But now he wondered if that was truly the case. It did seem as if every time he and Charles had met in person, he had usually ended up doing something to hurt Charles. Not physically, not since Cuba, but mentally and emotionally, and he wondered now if that was the reason that his old friend had sent the X-Men in his stead. Could Charles have been trying to avoid the pain of seeing him? Or could he have been blaming Erik all these years for deflecting that bullet into his spine?

Their last interaction – the day of Charles' death – Charles had seemed tense and upset when they met in front of the Grey house, and he had specifically asked Erik not to interfere with his goal of helping Jean and bringing her back to the mansion, yet Erik had been so caught up in his objective of trying to get to Jean first that he hadn't been able to keep himself from provoking the girl in order to sway her away from Charles. And it was only after the girl was angry, when Charles continued to talk to her, to try to convince her of his sincerity, that she had lost all control and killed him.

That realization struck him like a blow to the heart. It had been easy to say that Jean had been the one to kill Charles – after all, it had been her power that had gotten out of control and actually dealt the death blow. But he realized, staring up at the marker which was all that remained of his dearest friend, that _he_ was to blame for Charles' death. If he hadn't provoked Jean…

He had never done anything except hurt Charles in the course of the years that they had known each other…and he had finally caused the ultimate hurt by triggering the events that had led to Charles' death.

_I killed him…_

That thought pierced him like a red-hot sword plunging through his chest and into his heart. Ever since the day he met Charles, the man had never been anything but kind to him, and how had he been repaid for his kindness? Disintegrated by one of his beloved students because Erik hadn't known when to back off.

"God, Charles…I never wanted to hurt you. You have to know that I never wanted to cause you pain. It seems that I always did, despite my best intentions. You were too good, too pure – and I have never done anything except cause pain to the people that I care about. My darkness touched you and destroyed you. I could say that you left me no choice, but that would be a lie. Just know that I always regretted it, even though it was necessary for the survival of our species."

For a long time – how much time, he wasn't sure – he simply sat in the grass, staring at his friend's marker, lost in his thoughts and memories. He didn't know what his life would be like now, without Charles. Even though they had been rivals – some would have called them enemies – there had still been a level of mutual support and respect between them, no matter how many times the X-Men had thwarted his plans. Charles' respect and friendship had been the one constant in his life since the day his mother had died at Shaw's hands in the camps. He honestly didn't know what he would do without it.

Finally, a blue-furred hand landed on his shoulder. He looked up to see McCoy standing there looking down at him. Despite any anger that Beast might be feeling over his presence at the mansion, the politician's face was – surprisingly – deeply sympathetic.

"I don't want to rush you, Erik, but there is something else Charles asked of me…and we cannot keep the students confined inside all day," the bestial mutant said.

"I'm not going to hurt the students, McCoy. There's no reason to keep them confined."

"You'll forgive me for being careful, considering our past interactions," Beast snapped. "It was less than two years ago that you came after Rogue after all." The furred mutant closed his eyes a pained look coming over his face. "I'm sorry. That didn't come out the way I intended. Just…come with me."

Achingly, Erik rose to his feet, cursing his old age and stiffening joints. He followed McCoy towards the set of French doors that were on the mansion side of the small memorial garden, but paused just before he stepped onto the portico. He looked back at the memorial and sighed softly. "Goodbye, Charles."

Turning away from the marker with finality, he followed Beast into the mansion. Even though his grief, he was pleased to note in a corner of his mind that there had been very few changes – some new furniture, new carpeting, modern appliances and conveniences in place of some of the things he remembered from 1962, like the large television instead of the small, boxy, black and white set.

McCoy led him through the casual sitting area and into what had quite obviously been Charles' office. It wasn't the small, upstairs study that Charles had used in the week before Cuba, where the two of them had sat and played chess late into the night, although there were many similarities. There were bookshelves along the walls, a fireplace, several comfortable chairs and a couch. The biggest difference was that instead of full-length, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the shelves here were all low in order to accommodate Charles' inability to reach high places.

Most striking however, and the thing that made him freeze in his tracks, was the sleek metal wheelchair that sat off to the side, near the window. It was achingly empty, a stark anachronism to the Old World comfort of the room and the lingering presence of the man who had filled it.

Erik had always wondered why Charles had chosen a metal wheelchair, given that _he_ had been the one who had put a bullet through his back, crippling him for life. Had it been Charles' way of telling Erik that he didn't blame him? That he was still comfortable being around him, despite what had been done? Erik just couldn't comprehend how Charles could possibly _not_ blame him.

"_**She didn't do this, Erik. You did."**_ He flinched as he remembered the sound of his friend's pain-filled voice as he spoke those words.

The only time Erik had _not_ seen Charles in that wheelchair had been during the months he'd spent in that plastic prison and the guards had provided a plastic one for the crippled professor to visit his friend – but that wheelchair had never seemed to _fit_. It hadn't been _Charles_.

Beast had moved over to a beautiful landscape on the wall behind the massive desk and swung it aside to reveal a safe before he realized that Erik had stopped dead in the doorway. He followed the former mutant's gaze and sighed as he realized what Erik was staring at. "I know how you feel, Erik," he said softly. "It's been so much a part of this place since the beginning, and seeing it empty hurts. But it felt wrong to just get rid of it, and everyone agreed that it belonged here, at least for the time being. When we decide who the new headmaster is going to be, we'll figure out what to do. It's just – it's going to be hard. Either Scott or Jean were the next likely candidates for the position, but they're both gone. I would do it, but my job in Washington won't allow me to, which probably means that the job is going to go to Storm. She'll do a fantastic job – the children love her and respect her. We're going to need more teachers, and…" he trailed off before he sighed again. "It's going to be hard for anyone to fill the void he left behind."

"He was an extraordinary person," Erik agreed softly, before he forced himself to step further into the room and close the door behind himself, although his eyes still lingered on that empty wheelchair.

Beast skillfully worked the dial of the safe and swung it open. "Yes, he was." He reached inside the safe even as he continued speaking. "He always considered you to be his friend, Erik, although I don't know why after everything you've done. However, he left me a letter and asked me to give this to you." He pulled out a medium sized box that was deeper than it was wide and set it on the desk. The box was neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string, and Erik could see that there was a letter with his name on the envelope on top.

Beast closed the safe and painting and then extended the box towards him. "I don't know what this is, but you need to take it and go. You're no longer welcome here."

"What I did, I did for all of us," Erik said, not touching the box.

"You may believe that, but if you really had wanted to help mutants, you would have stayed with us and sought peace, not war." Beast all but shoved the box into his hands and then moved past him to open the door. "Go away, Erik."

There was nothing more that he could say to that, so Erik shifted his grip on the box as he turned on his heel and left the mansion through the front door. He heard the door close behind him with a finality that nearly sent a chill down his back. This place was no longer his home – it hadn't been for forty years. He walked down the long drive; his head was held high, even though he felt like part of him had died as he knelt at that grave marker.

But he would never return to his house. It was part of the past, and could not be a part of his future. Not without Charles.

**tbc...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:_ By posting this note I am probably digging myself a hole, but...you know what? I don't really care! Please, please review my story, folks? Not just favorite story or story alert...take the time and drop me a little note of encouragement. This is going to be a fairly short story...only one or two more chapters, and I would love to know what you think about it since it's my first time writing in the First Class-verse, although I am no stranger to X-Men._**

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><p><em>Central Park, New York City…a few hours later…<em>

Erik wasn't sure why he had retreated here after leaving the mansion. It was so…pedestrian, and yet he felt oddly drawn here. All around him people were walking their dogs, jogging along the paths, or enjoying various other summer-time pursuits like throwing Frisbees or flying kites in the cleared areas. No one paid him any attention at all, which meant he could examine the package from Charles in peace.

Commandeering a bench on an out of the way path that overlooked the lake, he studied the box. It was about a shoulder-width long and half that wide, and half a hand's length deep. Through the paper he thought he could feel hinges, which told him that it was designed to open, and – knowing Charles' love of beautiful and ornate things – the box inside the paper was probably carved wood – polished and expensive.

He set the box aside, however, because he was more interested in the letter. It was thick and bore Charles' perfect handwriting on the outside. Interestingly, it was labeled "Erik" not "Magneto", and he was forced to wonder if Beast would have given it to him if he still had his powers. Of course, if he still had his powers, he probably wouldn't have even been permitted within one hundred yards of the mansion, let alone allowed to sit by Charles' memorial or permitted inside his office.

He carefully extracted the envelope and held it, weighing it in his hand. The envelope was actually yellowed with age. In the interior light of the mansion it hadn't been noticeable, and he'd been too shocked by the fact that Charles had left him _anything_ to care.

But ultimately, he _was_ curious to know what message Charles had left him. What had needed to be said between them had been said that day on the beach, at the Senate building when the Registration Act was proposed, and all the times that Charles had come to visit Erik in his plastic prison. He couldn't imagine what more needed to be said, that Charles apparently had felt the need to write down long enough ago for the envelope to turn yellow. With a heavy sigh he slipped his finger beneath the flap and opened it, extracting the thick sheaf of paper inside.

He unfolded the letter, seeing the neat, proper handwriting of his oldest friend filling each page. He leaned back against the bench and started to read, one hand falling to rest on the paper-wrapped box.

_March 26, 1963_

_Dear Erik,_

_It has only been a few months since last I saw you, yet I feel compelled to write this letter explaining a few things to you. I know that our ideals are different and that we will probably never reconcile. You made your position quite clear, and I cannot sway from __**my**__ beliefs just for the sake of our friendship._

_I find it sad that we must disagree on this issue, and no doubt it will lead to many years of conflict between the two of us, with each of us battling to prove that we are right. We are all one people, you are right about that, but it is for that reason that we should stand together and introduce ourselves as friends, not enemies. That was the whole purpose of trying to stop Shaw, to show that we are willing to stand up to protect human lives, that not all mutants have Shaw's twisted evil inside. Instead, we are destined to continually fight until one or the other is proven right. Why must it be this way?_

_If things go the way I sense they will, you will probably not receive this letter until after I am dead. It seems odd to already be thinking about my own death, but recent events have forced me to really look at how quickly things can change. I do not know if you are aware of my changed circumstances or not, but I have no doubt that if you do not know already, you will soon._

_We have not known each other very long, and I know you were uncomfortable with how much I know about your past when I never reciprocated and shared mine. Some part of me hopes that this will help you understand me better, and to understand why I have held to my beliefs all this time, despite what happened that day._

Erik paused and considered the letter, knowing that by writing this, his friend had found a way to speak to him from beyond the grave. His eyes flickered back up to the date on the letter. March 1963…Charles would have been paralyzed for five months at the time he wrote this letter. He thought back, trying to remember when he had learned that the bullet had left Charles a cripple. If he remembered correctly, it had been three or four months before he had learned the truth…but that didn't really matter now. The question was, did he want to know, or was he content to know what he already knew and no more?

Some part of him felt that he owed this to Charles after everything he had done to hurt him – an atonement of sorts. The rest of him didn't want to read about Charles' spoiled, idealistic background. He had learned everything he needed to know about his friend when he had seen Charles' family estate for the first time after the attack on the CIA base. Charles had never suffered a hardship like the camps, and he'd had Raven with him.

Sighing, he returned his attention to the letter.

_Please, understand my friend…I am baring my soul to you. Writing this letter is probably the hardest thing I have ever had to do. Much of what I wish to tell you I have told no one. Raven knows, but she was there for it. She knows about it, but I never told her the full extent of what actually happened. She had already been through so much, and I had promised her safety…safety I could not provide if I told her everything._

"_**It was a hardship softened by me,"**_ Raven's words drifted back into his mind. At the time, he hadn't thought anything of it, but now, looking at Charles' letter and thinking back on it, he wondered if there hadn't been a deeper meaning to her words than he had considered at the time.

_I know I am not in a position to demand anything of you…yet I would ask that you withhold any judgments until you finish reading this. Then…if you still cannot understand why my beliefs are what they are, I will simply have to accept that fact and continue to hope that someday you __**will**__ understand._

Erik frowned at that plea. There was no way Charles could have known when or if he would ever read this letter, or if something else would bring them back together – so why had he felt compelled to write it? Why was it so important to his friend that he understand it and not pass judgment? But Charles _had_ written the letter, and the least that he could do was honor his friend's request.

_You once called me an idealistic, naïve fool who so wanted to see the good in everyone that I had blinded myself to the evils of the world. At the time, I merely smiled at you and allowed you to believe that, although deep inside it was so much different. My heart clenched with long-buried pain as you disregarded everything that I was and everything that I had experienced in my life. To be fair, I hadn't shared anything with you, but you were so wrapped up in your own rage, hate, and pain that you didn't even consider what __**I**__ might have gone through as well. You saw the façade that I wanted you – everyone – to see._

_No, my friend, you had no idea, because I did not __**want**__ you to know. I knew the evils of the world long before I met you. Did you forget that I am a telepath? My powers manifested when I was quite young, and I had to teach myself the control that you and the boys envy whenever you look at me. But until I did learn that control, I felt the pain of all the minds around me, absorbed it, and was deeply changed by it._

_When my father died, it hurt. But I didn't take it too much to heart, even at the age of nine, because even then I knew that I still had my mother, and that she loved me. But my pain truly started when my mother remarried a year later and we welcomed my stepfather and stepbrother into our home – yes, the very same mansion that you saw and which you immediately assumed meant that I had lived a sheltered, pampered life. I heard your thoughts then, my friend, and they were quite clear – and no, I didn't read your mind. You broadcasted them to me, and I couldn't help but overhear._

_Raven came into my life and it was easy for us to love each other as brother and sister because we both felt like we only had each other. My mother died a few short years after marrying my stepfather and for years afterward I endured abuse at the hands of my stepfather and stepbrother. My stepfather was an angry, violent man who was furious that he had not been able to con my mother into giving him my inheritance, and my stepbrother was a jealous, lazy bully who delighted on picking on me just because I was younger and smaller. When I began to have success academically, it only made things worse between my stepbrother and me. I endured abuse from both of them because of who I was, and I took additional abuse in an effort to protect Raven from their cruelty._

_I learned pain and I learned the hurt that can be caused by anger, greed, jealousy, and hatred. Those were my personal pains, but from the minds of others I felt and learned the pain carried along with the hardships of starvation, sickness, poverty, and death. Just going to school every day and being with my classmates taught me about pain, for they all had their own pains that I could not help but feel until I learned control of my power and learned to shut it out. Even __**your**__ memories hurt me, though I buried it deeply and never let you see how much it affected me. I knew your pain, and I was trying to save you from that pain from the very moment that we met. I think, even then, some part of me knew that I couldn't save you unless you were willing to save yourself, but it didn't stop me from trying._

_But I forgave your ignorance the night you called me an idealistic fool, Erik. And I was thankful that you were not a telepath and would never know __**my**__ pain, for yours was dark enough for both of us._

Erik let the letter fall in shock. _How did I never know any of this?_ he wondered. How had Charles been able to keep all of this from him? And why? In a vague, impossible effort to save him? Why had he never put the pieces together, that Charles, as a telepath, would feel the pain of the people around him as if it was his own? And if his powers came on him as a young child...and he didn't know how to control them…surely the pain would have been magnified as his young mind struggled to cope, to understand things that he was too young to comprehend.

It was a miracle that Charles hadn't gone mad from what he had gone through – that he had been able to find any spot of decency and goodness in anyone.

He picked up the letter and skimmed it again, rereading the part about how Charles had been abused by his stepfamily. _What kind of abuse did he suffer_? Erik wondered. _Did they beat him, starve him, or torture him? Or was it worse than that?_ There was no indication in the letter that Erik could see. Perhaps, if he could find her and she was willing to talk to him, Raven could shed some light on the subject, even though Charles had written that he had done his best to protect her from the full truth. But perhaps there were things that she knew that, as a child, she had never fully understood or connected the dots to put together the full picture.

_I forgave you for your ignorance_…Erik couldn't help but feel…relieved at those words. It was such a minor thing in the grand scheme, yet knowing that Charles had not held it against him all these years _did_ help. After all, even some forgiveness was better than none, even if it was for an offense that he hadn't even been aware that he had committed against his friend. He remembered the conversation that the two of them had had, the night before Cuba as they sat up late into the night playing chess. It had been that night when Charles had tried to convince him that killing Shaw wouldn't bring him any peace, and Erik had frankly admitted that he wasn't looking to find peace.

He had called Charles idealistic, naïve and arrogant, among other things. He had firmly believed that Charles couldn't possibly understand the pain of seeing his mother shot in front of him by a sadistic madman, that he was foolish enough to believe that the humans would welcome them with open arms and treat them as heroes for stopping Shaw's insane plan to kill them all. But Charles had no doubt sensed all of that, even if he hadn't actively read his mind, and had apparently been deeply hurt by it, enough that he felt it necessary to specifically make sure that he understood that he didn't hold Erik to blame.

He put the letter down again and rubbed his eyes. He'd barely read any of it, and already he was exhausted. Charles' emotions at the time he was writing this letter were still quite clear, even forty years later. It was in the word choice, in the formal yet honest way that Charles wrote, in the neat, precise penmanship. For a moment, he didn't know if he could continue to read the letter any more. He was tempted to just set it aside and come back to it another time…but it wouldn't change the fact that there was apparently more that Charles had wanted him to know, and putting it off longer would be wrong and it wouldn't be fair to Charles, who had taken the time all those years ago to write all of this down, never knowing if he would ever get to read it or not.

No…he owed his friend enough to finish what he had begun. Letting out a slow, deep breath in an effort to try to calm his thoughts and curtail his emotions, he found the place he'd left off.

_I may have always sought the good in others, but that doesn't mean that pain, anger, and betrayal do not touch me – that I cannot feel them for myself as well as from others. But of all the anguish I have felt in my life, it was losing you that finally broke me; that truly wounded my soul and made me question my beliefs._

_I was alone for so long until Raven came into my life. My mother loved me, but she was often busy and didn't have time for me. I was left to practically raise myself and find ways to keep myself entertained. Raven filled some of the void that had been there since my father's death. Even though my mother loved me, there was still a void there, until Raven came. I could love her and care for her, and know that she loved and cared for me as well. But ultimately, I had to be the strong one for her. It was for that reason that I ran interference between her and my stepfather and stepbrother. My powers were strong enough to convince them that she had always been present in the family, but that didn't mean they were willing to leave her out of their plans and anger. I had to be strong and protect her, because that was what I pledged I would do. Very rarely did I get the chance to be weak and let someone else protect __**me**__._

_Until I met you._

_With you, I found strength, and I found solace. Though you had that horrible darkness inside you, I trusted that you would never hurt me. I pretended to be strong and unflappable, flaunting my control over my powers in an effort to convince you and the others that they could learn it too. But in truth, I needed you just as much as you needed me. You were older, taller, stronger, and more physically imposing. In many ways you reminded me of my stepbrother, but unlike Cain, there was a goodness to you that I had never felt in him – and I knew that I could allow myself to love you, to see you as the brother I never had. I could trust you to protect me and keep me safe, while I tried to find a way to heal you and bring you some peace. Your strength made me stronger. Shaw was never able to break you completely, and after seeing your memories, it gave me the strength to face my own, to admit to myself what I had gone through, and to become confident that I could put those memories aside and gain strength from the fact that I had survived._

_I know you often wondered, in that week before Cuba, what I was doing to train my powers. I heard the thought in your mind and saw it in your eyes as you watched me work with Hank, Alex, and Sean, but you never commented on it. As a telepath, the training I put myself under was as rigorous as anything I did for everyone else. The worst enemy that a telepath can have is our own mind – my power and my control comes from accepting every aspect of my life, including the painful parts. Until I met you and saw the darkness inside you, I had buried the memories of what I suffered at the hands of my stepfamily. I didn't want to remember it, because it brought me nothing but pain – and emotional pain can cripple a telepath._

_But in order to help you face your darkness, I had to face my own, else I would have been nothing but a bloody hypocrite. So with every moment of every day, I forced myself to not only relive those memories, but to work past them, to use my powers or to maintain a conversation with Alex, Hank, Sean, or you without giving any sign that I was doing so. Didn't you ever wonder where I came up with the idea of true focus that I shared with you? It was drawn from my own experiences. I could either allow the pain and anger at my stepbrother and stepfather to forever cloud my judgment of the human race, as you have done, or I could embrace what they did to me, use that power to make myself stronger because I could work my way past the pain and not allow it to influence me as anything other than a distant memory. I could draw instead on the happy moments with my father that I remember, or the times I spent with Raven._

_So for that, my friend, I thank you. You made me stronger, and you gave me the courage to make myself stronger._

_Yet it was you who broke me._

The blame in those words stabbed through him. He had never known that Charles had felt that way about him before – he had known they were friends…the weeks of travelling together, seeking out other young mutants to join them had cemented their friendship. But he had never even suspected that Charles had looked at him as a brother, as his protector. The young telepath had always seemed so strong and confident. After all, he had been thirty years old and already held a doctorate in genetics from Oxford no less. He had been a powerful telepath with nearly complete control over his powers.

But, apparently, he had also been an abused young man, a protector who had never been protected himself. And yet he had never given even a hint of it. The façade that he had created had been flawless, and it had fooled Erik completely. His eyes went back to that one line.

_Yet it was you who broke me_.

There was no way to hide the accusation, although the words were written to be straight-forward, honest, and blunt, just like Charles. In the short time that he had known the telepath before Cuba, Charles had always struck him as being proud and unafraid to speak his mind – a talent that Erik had wondered if it could possibly be linked to his incredibly powerful mind. He had never had any idea that Charles had seen him like that.

_That day on the beach, I stood there and held onto Shaw with all my strength and power. I knew you sought to kill him, but I had hoped that I could change your mind – right up until that moment when you claimed that damned helmet for your own. The silence in the mind that I had drawn my strength from cut through my heart the same way your coin cut through Shaw's skull._

_A pain which I also felt._

Erik blinked as he read. Charles had…it wasn't possible. Surely physical pain couldn't translate telepathically in that fashion…could it?

_You are not a telepath, my friend, so you do not know the agony I suffered in those moments as you killed Shaw. As I struggled to hold Shaw, to control him…for those short minutes I had to __**become**__ Shaw. It was the only way I could contain his power. The coin went through __**my**__ head, carving a path through __**my**__ brain. Shaw's pain and death were mine. __**I**__ died a little bit in those moments that felt like eternity. Even now, if I choose to, I can remember it, and in the dead of night it still haunts my dreams. I suspect that it always will. Perhaps, if we ever reconcile before you get an opportunity to read this letter, I will have the courage to tell you what you did to me that day…_

Involuntarily, Erik's hand fisted, crumpling the letter inside it as he fought the urge to scream. _How_ could this possibly be true? _How _could he never have realized that by asking Charles to hold Shaw, to prevent him from using his powers, he was asking Charles to literally live through Shaw's death? He _knew_ from the short time he had been around Emma Frost that pain could be felt by a telepath because there was such a close connection between a person's mind and their emotions. But he had never imagined that physical pain could be shared as well. After all, he had seen Emma kill someone once with her powers, not to mention the numerous times that she had used them to torture people for information so that Mystique could pull off a believable impersonation. Had Emma felt it too? Or had she become so inured to the pain that she had sealed part of her very existence away? Was that why she had been so cold, so emotionless? Had she taken a step that Charles had never been able to?

_Why didn't you tell me, Charles? Why didn't you tell me that would happen? I never would have put you through that if I'd known._ "Why, Charles? Why didn't you trust me enough?" Or perhaps that had been the very reason that Charles hadn't mentioned it – because he had trusted Erik _too_ much. He had trusted Erik to make the right decision, to be logical and calm enough to listen to reason, to allow Charles to explain what needed to happen…until he had realized what Shaw's helmet could do and he had taken it for his own and prevented his friend from communicating with him.

In a sudden flurry of rage, he threw the crumpled letter on the ground at his feet and stood. Instinctively, he reached for his power, searching for anything metallic that he could take command of and mutilate and mangle. He suddenly wanted to kill Shaw a thousand times more, even though the man had been dead for forty years. He wanted to scream, to rage at something – but he was still a wanted man and he could not risk someone calling the police on him and taking him into custody.

But no metal leapt to his command…his powers were gone and he was so much less than he had been.

Feeling the weight of the world and his age combined, Erik sank back down onto the bench and buried his face in his hands. He didn't know whether he should cry or scream – everything in his life had been a failure. He'd lost his mother and father, he'd suffered unbelievable torture at Shaw's hands, he'd seen his people – both the Jews and mutants – persecuted at the hands of bigots just for being different, and now he'd lost his powers and his only chance to get his people the respect that they deserved.

But for some reason, none of that mattered to him…except for the most important loss of all – his dearest and only friend. And _he_ had done more to hurt Charles Xavier in the forty years they had known each other than anything that Shaw or the Nazis could have done to him in the same amount of time.

Hot tears welled up in his eyes and threatened to choke him as he struggled to repress the emotion of reading his friend's words. If Charles had sought to punish him for all the pain and hurt that he had been put through at his hands, the telepath could not have devised a more suitable way of doing so. Physical pain meant nothing to him. His tolerance for physical pain was higher than most because of what Shaw had done. Mentally, he feared nothing because of the helmet he had taken from Shaw – no one could touch his mind while he wore it and thus he had never needed to worry about anything except what his own memories conjured for him in the darkest parts of the night. But emotionally…he wasn't prepared to deal with the pain he was feeling at that very moment as Charles' words ripped into his heart and woke emotions that he thought he had buried forever.

How long he sat there, he didn't know. The whole time, he choked, trying desperately to reach the place of serenity that he had found long ago.

"_**I believe that true focus lies somewhere between rage and serenity...There's so much more to you than you know. Not just pain and anger. There's good too, I felt it. When you can access all that, you'll possess a power that no one can match. Not even me."**_

Again, Charles' words came back to him, choking him again as he realized that the technique he had been using all these years to focus his powers and give him strength had come from Charles. How could he have forgotten that? The stab of pain went through him again – Charles had given him everything, and what had he done? He had spit in his best friend's face and counted him as worthless…and why? Because they didn't have the same viewpoint?

"Sir?"

He jerked up, startled at the sound and quickly dashed his hand against his eyes to remove any lingering trace of the tears that were threatening to steal his breath. A young girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen was standing a few feet away from him, with a hesitantly concerned look on her face.

"Are you all right?" she asked once she realized that she had his attention.

"Y-" his voice broke when he tried to answer and he quickly cleared his throat. "Yes, I'm fine."

She watched him for a moment before she extended the crumpled up letter that he had thrown to the ground. "I saw the wind catch this and I didn't think you noticed."

He was shocked that someone would have cared enough to retrieve his friend's letter for him, and he reached out and took it from her extended hand. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She hesitated and then left him alone, holding Charles' letter. For a moment it had looked like she wanted to say something further, but then thought better of it and decided to just carry on with her day.

Erik watched her go for a moment, before he turned his attention back to the crumpled up letter. There was still a great deal of it that he hadn't read – but he didn't know if he could take any more. He wasn't even sure that he understood Charles' intention in writing this letter any more.

But…

Charles had written this for a reason, and apparently he had never even confided in Beast, Havok, or Banshee about it, since Beast had mentioned that he had no idea what was in the box or the letter. And if Charles had intended that this letter would never be read until he was dead…

Carefully, he smoothed the creases out of the letter and laid it down in his lap, trying to decide if he could bear to continue reading. It would be so easy to simply take the letter and put it away in a drawer, somewhere he'd never have to look at it again. He could also throw it away, but some part of him rebelled at that thought, since it felt like he was once again spitting in Charles' face by being so heartless. Even though Charles was dead and would never know, he couldn't bear to be that cruel and cold regarding his friend.

_I owe this to Charles. It's the least I can do, considering what I've done to him over the years. He wrote this for me for a reason – he wanted me to know this. I should at least honor his wishes and finish it._

His hands actually trembled a little as he picked the letter back up. Now that it was creased it was a little more difficult to read, but Charles had apparently had the foresight to use a sturdy-weight paper and a thick, dark ink, which made it easier than it would have been with modern paper and ink.

It was a hard decision to make, but at least it couldn't be much worse. After all, if it had been written in 1963, there wouldn't be any accusations about Alkali Lake, or Liberty Island buried in his friend's careful writing.

_Actually, if I am honest with myself, I am too much of a coward to tell you to your face what you did to me that day. Even if we reconcile, I will never have the courage to tell you how much you hurt me. That sounds impossible, I am sure, but some part of me is still the small boy who was so abused by his stepfamily that he cannot bear to do anything to cause pain to someone else, lest he feel their pain as well as his own._

_No…the only way you shall ever know this is if I am gone before you, my friend. That is the way it must be._

_I felt Shaw's pain on the beach, and just as I told you, killing him did not bring you any peace. I could sense that much in your mind. Your vengeance was fulfilled, yet part of you was still empty – as I knew it would be. But still, I had taken and endured that agony, because I cared about you, and I was willing to do whatever was necessary to help you._

_I lost much of my naïveté and idealism in those moments when I held Shaw. Until that point, I thought I knew what pain and agony were, but I had never known just how evil and twisted someone could become. Shaw was incredibly strong and his mind was so twisted and dark that it surpassed the darkest evil I had known up to that moment, in the mind of my stepbrother. But I lost even more when I realized that you were right about the humans' fear of us._

_Is it surprising that I can admit that? I know you may think so, but I never denied that there might be some fear and resentment. What I hold so dear to my heart is the possibility that with kindness, maturity, and control of our abilities, we can be friends with those who are not mutants – that we can win acceptance from them with time and patience. But to convince you of that is not the true purpose of this letter._

_The worst part of that day was not the coin, or feeling Shaw die inside my mind. What was worse was when we stood on that beach together, with you holding those missiles up. You would not listen to my pleas, and I could not touch your mind because of the helmet. The only option left to me was to fight you in order to save the lives of the men on those ships. I knew that they might be frightened of what we could do, but that only reinforced my conviction that we needed to present ourselves peacefully, to overcome that fear by showing that we could control ourselves and our powerful abilities._

_So I fought you for their lives, because you left me no other choice. I had considered you my brother – and yet we clashed. For what reason? For the lives of strangers, I fought with the man who was the closest thing I had ever had to a real brother. Do I regret it? No, I don't...and yet I do regret it, because it set the two of us at odds and showed me that the only option we would truly have from that moment forward would be to go our own separate ways._

_I fought you and I won, because I did succeed in saving the lives of those men…_

…_but I also lost._

_I lost when that bullet slammed into my back. I lost when Raven decided to follow you, leaving me, her brother, wounded and bleeding on the beach._

_But most of all, I lost __**my**__ brother, and I felt the sting of betrayal. Even as I lay there, wounded, you still didn't trust me enough to remove Shaw's helmet and allow me to draw some comfort from touching your mind so that I didn't feel alone._

_My friend, I do want you to understand something very important, however. Despite all the pain that you caused me that day, despite the fact that we went our separate ways, despite the fact that I felt like __**I**__ was betraying __**you**__ for fighting against you...I still forgave you._

_I forgave you for the betrayal, I forgave you for the coin, Raven, and the bullet – but on the beach that day I could __**not**__ forgive you for the helmet. For everything else, I forgave you, even though I wished with all my soul that you were telepathic too, so that you could know what you did to me that day. It may be cruel of me to say that, but at the time, all I wanted was for you to know what it was that you had done to me._

_But I did forgive you, and I have never held it against you._

Erik couldn't go on reading. Every word on the page wrenched at his heart, choked the breath in his throat, and caused tears to well up in his eyes. In that moment, he hated Charles for doing this, for putting these emotions on paper and then leaving them behind to be read only after he was dead. Now Erik had no way to talk to Charles, no way to vent his frustration with his friend. He had been better off before he had read this letter. He had been better off when he had believed that Charles had lived an indulged lifestyle of wealth and privilege.

"Damn you, Charles," he whispered. "Damn you for your idealism, your kindness, and your optimism." It felt wrong to be cursing the dead like this, but he couldn't bring himself to truly care at the moment. Any cares he'd had about religion or the afterlife had been brutally shattered as he watched his people dying in the concentration camps all those years ago.

He started to crumple the letter up again, but stopped himself in time and instead simply folded the letter and stuffed it back inside the envelope. He felt completely drained and exhausted, even more so than when he had experimented with his device to turn humans into mutants on Senator Kelly.

His gaze fell on the paper-wrapped box next to him…but he could care less about it at the moment, he decided. Tucking the envelope back under the string that was wrapped around the box, he picked the whole thing up and tucked it under his arm before he headed back to the hotel room he had rented while he made this journey back to New York to bid farewell to his friend.

He would finish reading the letter…but not now. He didn't have the energy to read any more, to learn more dark secrets that Charles had hidden from him for forty years. Another day, another time…that would be the time to finish the letter and then decide if he wanted to open the box.

**tbc...stay tuned!**


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: Terribly sorry about making you wait for this one, although it hasn't been very long. Real life sort of grabbed me, but I sat down this week and was determined to finish this story. Still not there yet, but I foresee only one more chapter to go. Although, out of curiosity, would anyone be interested in seeing a sort of spin-off of this story with Raven receiving forgiveness from Charles? Not necessarily in the same way, but along the same vein? Let me know...and please drop me a review? I appreciate all of the favorites and author's/story alerts...but I'd really love for this story to pick up a few more reviews...I've gotten spoiled after the response I've had to my other story Lost and Found...which I swear I am going to continue very soon! I just have not had the time or the inspiration...but never fear, it is always in my thoughts while I try to work out the next chapter and where I want the story to go!_

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><p><em><strong>Chapter Three<strong>_

_Two weeks later…_

_Who __would __have __believed __it? __Charles__' __dream __is __actually __starting __to __come __to __pass._ Erik folded the newspaper half-heartedly and tossed it onto his small kitchen table as he went to stand at the window. Below him, the bustling metropolis of New York City sprawled out, humans and mutants alike going about their daily lives. Peace was slow in forming, but it _was_ starting. And Erik found that to be the most extraordinary thing of all.

Erik glanced back at the newspaper, ignoring the fact that he was living in a small apartment with an exorbitant rent. If it wasn't for the fact that he had been able to get access to all of Sebastian Shaw's financial assets after the man's death thanks to Emma Frost and Mystique, he would have been in a lot more trouble than he currently was. Being a still-wanted mutant terrorist – even if he no longer had his mutant powers – did not lend itself to getting a job in order to survive. But he still had plenty of money thanks to Shaw, so it hadn't been hard for him to get an apartment under an assumed name and stay below the radar of law enforcement while they searched for him in vain. Although the apartment was small, he had at least had the presence of mind to get one that was fully – and comfortably – furnished.

Besides, they weren't looking for him in New York, since the last place that he had been seen had been San Francisco. No one would have expected him to head back to New York – not after the Liberty Island incident – which made it a perfect place to lay low while the furor over the incident on Alcatraz died down.

Despite the half-hearted way he had folded the newspaper, the front-page headline was clearly visible, even from where he stood.

**Dr. Henry McCoy named United States Ambassador to the United Nations!**

It was ironic how far Beast had come. When Erik had first met him, he'd been a meek, shy, braniac of seventeen. But in the last forty years, he'd become bold, confident, and unashamed of his appearance and mutation. And now he was an Ambassador to the rest of the world.

_You __taught __him __well, __Charles_.

A smaller article beneath the fold was also showing changes that had been made since Alcatraz. Warren Worthington the Second, the man who had financed the development of the cure, had made a public appearance to apologize for his belief that mutation was a disease and to admit that his original purpose in creating the cure had been an effort to eliminate his son's mutation. After his son's ability had saved his life, however, and after seeing that Warren the Third had accepted the gift he had been given, he had come to understand that some mutants actually _liked _their gifts and didn't want to lose them. It was a remarkable retraction from a man who had so confidently announced to the world that mutation was a disease. The President had banned all use of the cure in military weapons after the disaster at Alcatraz. Mutants who had truly hated their powers or their appearances were still able to get the cure, but it wasn't being forced on anyone.

There were still outcries from people who truly hated mutants, but hopefully Beast's new promotion as Ambassador to the United Nations would help a great deal. The President's plan to have someone in that position who was a _visible_ mutant, yet who had complete control over his powers would, with any luck, lay some of the fear to rest.

"Maybe you were right, Charles," he mused aloud. "Maybe peace will happen in our time. I am only sorry that you never got to see your dream realized."

If he was honest with himself, he was still a bit disbelieving that it was _Charles__'_ pacifistic ideology that was taking root. The X-Men's stand _against_ his mutants in _favor_ of the humans had shown that mutants were willing to work _together_ with their lesser kin. But at the same time he couldn't help but wonder why it hadn't worked when he and Charles and their original team had stood up to Shaw and prevented World War III and a nuclear holocaust. What was so different this time?

How many years had he wasted? He couldn't help but ask himself that question. He had believed fervently that his fears would come to pass, and they almost had, yet against all odds, it was _Charles_' ideology that was beginning to spread. How had his old friend managed it? Could it have happened faster if he had stayed with his friend after Cuba and helped him with his school?

He still did not regret his choices, but he was beginning to wonder if they had been the right ones. As he had told Pyro, his single regret was that Charles had had to die after doing so much for the cause of mutant rights – more than anyone could have imagined. He could imagine the smile on his old friend's face as he saw what had become of Beast, one of his first students. And Banshee and Havok were working for Interpol…truly Charles' children were making something of their lives, just as Charles had believed they would.

"What were we, Charles? Were we the kings directing our pawns in a bloody battle, or were we the pawns being moved by the hand of Fate?"

Turning away from the window abruptly, his eyes fell on the box that he had tossed on top of a sideboard. It still sat there, wrapped and untouched since the day he had received it, the damned letter from Charles still stuffed in its yellowed envelope waiting for him to either finish reading it or throw it away. He had avoided it like the plague for the last two weeks, not wanting to even think about how he had not had the courage to finish reading it.

Despite his determination to ignore it, the letter and box were as obvious as an elephant in the room and were constantly encroaching on his thoughts, silently accusing him of cowardice in failing to finish what he had begun. It was almost to the point that he couldn't bear to spend any time in the apartment, and that just pissed him off. He was the Master of Magnetism – or had been at any rate. He had gone through torture that most people couldn't dream of…so why was he allowing something as simple as a forty year old letter to drive him to distraction? If he didn't know for a fact that such a thing wasn't possible due to his helmet, he would almost have suspected Charles of having implanted a hypnotic suggestion inside his mind on that last day in front of the Grey house so that he wouldn't have any peace until he'd read the letter to completion. But again, that assumed that Charles had come to that house aware that he was about to die. Not to mention, his old friend would have had to find a way to get his powers past the helmet, something he had never been able to do in forty years.

Besides – that wasn't Charles' way.

It had been two weeks…maybe it was time to finish it. His emotions – turbulent after reading Charles' words about what had happened that day on the beach – had calmed somewhat. In a way, this was yet another battle in the struggle he had waged with Charles. And right now, Charles was winning the battle – again. The last thing he wanted was for his cowardice to get the better of him in _this_ battle. Charles was winning by virtue of the fact that he'd had the courage to write the letter in the first place. The only way _he_ would triumph would be if he could finish reading the letter as Charles had wanted him to.

_Damn __you, __Charles__…__I__'__m __never __going __to __be __able __to __put __you __out __of __my __mind __until __I __finish __your __twice-damned __letter._

Storming over to the box, he almost ripped the letter free from where he had tucked it under the string and carried it over to one of the comfortable armchairs that had been provided with the fully furnished apartment when he leased it. He would finish reading the letter and then perhaps he would have some peace of mind for the first time in weeks. He had thought that paying his respects to his friend at the mansion would have brought peace of mind, but it had only made things worse. He took a seat and extracted the crumpled letter from the envelope, his eyes tracking back down the page until he found the place that he had left off.

If he squared his shoulders and straightened his back before reading – well, no one was around to see, and it was as if he was girding himself for battle.

_Thinking of this as a battle – how ironically apropos. All right, Charles – this is a battle you are **not** going to win._

He raised the letter and began to read.

_My friend, I do want you to understand something very important, however. Despite all the pain that you caused me that day, despite the fact that we went our separate ways, despite the fact that I felt like **I** was betraying **you** for fighting against you...I still forgave you._

_I forgave you for the betrayal, I forgave you for the coin, Raven, and the bullet – but on the beach that day I could **not** forgive you for the helmet. For everything else, I forgave you, even though I wished with all my soul that you were telepathic too, so that you could know what you did to me that day. It may be cruel of me to say that, but at the time, all I wanted was for you to know what it was that you had done to me._

_But I did forgive you, and I have never held it against you._

_My friend – it has been five months since I last saw you, and as I sit here in my study on a beautiful spring day, I wish that you could be here. Despite the pain I suffered in this house as a child, I have always loved the estate in the spring. Everything is new and clean, bright and full of promise. Spring is a time of restoration and awakening. Wherever you are Erik, I hope that spring means the same to you._

_But this past winter was – difficult – for me, Erik. I am not ashamed to admit it. It was almost as bad as the long, cold winters I spent trapped here as a child under the brutal reign of my stepfamily. But at least then, I had Raven._

_Don't feel guilty, Erik. I do not blame you for taking her away. I let her go freely, with love, because I can no longer give her what she needs or wants. I know if I had told her how badly I was hurt, asked her to stay, she would have. But I needed to set her free. I have tried to constrain her, to hide her for her whole life. I failed her, and I finally understand that. But as this past winter dragged on, I missed her dearly._

_I won't deny that it has been a struggle for me as I've had to relearn how to care for myself now that I can no longer walk. Learning such simple tasks as getting dressed or moving from my bed to my chair has been much more difficult that I had ever expected it would be, even when I first heard the news that I would not walk again and accepted that as my fate. And I won't deny that I did suffer through a severe bout of depression leading up to Christmas. More than anything, I wanted you and Raven with me. I knew it would never happen though, which only contributed to the depression._

_But Moira stayed, and Alex, Hank, and Sean. They were my champions and they fought for me. While I was still in the hospital, they orchestrated the renovations that the mansion needed to accommodate my new condition. When I fell, they were there to help me up. They encouraged me, trusted me, and helped me. For a time after Cuba, my nightmares were horrible and my telepathy was out of control, but they never shied away from me or blamed me for my loss of control or the nightmares they suffered on my behalf. You have no idea how guilty I felt about **that**. I was weighed down by the lingering horror of Shaw's death, of losing Raven, of my paralysis…but that was not what troubled me most._

_I failed Raven, but I also failed **you**, Erik._

Erik had to stop again. The emotions of what Charles had written were so intense that despite his resolve to get through the letter, he could feel himself wavering under the pressure of his own emotions. What hell Charles had apparently gone through in the wake of Cuba…and he wasn't even sharing details. The letter was the stating of simple facts, but there was nothing to really tell him just _how_ badly the telepath had suffered.

Never, in his wildest dreams, had he imagined that the confident telepath could be brought so low. To him, Charles would always be the eternal optimist.

Although, now that he thought about it, he did remember that Mystique had seemed oddly quiet and sad during that first November and December.

_**Erik walked into the common room of the abandoned military base they had taken over after departing from Cuba and retrieving Emma from CIA custody. It had been over a month since then, and it was barely a week until Christmas. Not that he cared – after all, he was Jewish, even if he hadn't celebrated any holiday or worshipped at all since the camps. He'd been on a mission for the last week, trying to recruit more to their cause, but it was difficult without Charles to pinpoint them. Yes, Emma was a telepath, but he had come to realize that, although she was powerful, she was not as powerful as Charles.**_

_**Mystique was perched on a counter, humming softly under her breath. As usual, she was in her natural form which he found so attractive, but for some reason she seemed…lord, this was ironic…blue.**_

"_**Mystique?"**_

_**She looked up. "Erik!" She was the only member of the Brotherhood permitted to use his human name. She jumped off the counter and hurried over to throw her arms around his neck.**_

_**He returned her hug and kissed her gently. She rested her head against his chest, over his heart, and wrapped her arms around him. "I missed you." She gazed up at him. "How was your mission?"**_

"_**Fruitless," he admitted. "Finding mutants now is not as easy as it was with your brother and Cerebro."**_

_**Her golden eyes dimmed slightly at the mention of her brother, and he frowned. "What's wrong?"**_

_**She broke away from him and stepped back. "Nothing." She started to turn away, but he reached out and grasped her upper arm, halting her and turning her back.**_

"_**Raven.**__**" **__**His **__**use **__**of **_her _**human **__**name **__**was **__**telling.**_

_**She bit her lower lip for a moment, and he was certain that something was bothering her. Guiding her over to a spindly wooden chair, he gently forced her to sit and knelt in front of her so he could look into her eyes. "Tell me. I can't fix it unless I know what's wrong."**_

"_**It's almost Christmas."**_

_**Erik was puzzled. "Yes."**_

"_**Charles and I love Christmas. We've always spent it together."**_

_**Erik understood. They were on opposite sides now, and she couldn't be with her brother. Though he would welcome her back, even if it was just for a day, the others wouldn't. He knew she already felt guilty about leaving Charles on the beach in Cuba, even if he had given her his blessing. Not getting to spend a holiday that was all about family with the person who had been the most important member of her family had to be hard.**_

Erik had been concerned about Mystique that time, but it had been the only year that he had seen her act that way. If she had continued to feel sorrow about it, she'd hidden it from him masterfully. After all, Charles and Raven had been exceedingly close. He'd seen it repeatedly in the way they had had so casually expressed their affection. They'd constantly been sharing hugs and kisses, teasing each other, and scolding each other. He'd seen Charles' approval of her, and he'd seen the devastation on her face when she'd been met with her brother's disapproval on the day she'd christened them with their code names.

His concern had been for Mystique, and he'd never even thought about how Charles would have felt that first holiday season. With the childhoods that Mystique and Charles must have had, those holidays together must have been some of the few real moments of joy before they'd left Westchester and gone to England.

But it was the last line he'd read that really struck a chord with him.

_I failed Raven, but I also failed **you**, Erik._

He shook his head at that. "How do you think you failed me, Charles?" he asked, even though the telepath was gone and could not hear the question – would never hear the question. He'd made his choices and followed his own path after Cuba. Shaw had molded him into a weapon, but _he_ had made the choice to use that power. Charles was a protector, a caretaker, but Erik had never needed or wanted that from the telepath. There was no failure on Charles' part as far as Erik was concerned.

Perhaps it was just Charles' self-sacrificing nature that had made him feel that way. Charles was – had been – one of the most ignorantly noble people that Erik had ever known. Somehow, he'd sensed that his friend was destined for martyrdom at some point in his life. Certainly the man had the patience and control of a saint – would being a martyr be any different?

Erik sighed and returned to the letter.

_I also failed **you**, Erik._

_When we met, I felt your pain, your rage, and your darkness. Even though you didn't realize it, it was a cry for help – one that I was glad to answer. Part of me knew, even then, that I couldn't help you unless you **wanted** to be helped…but part of me also knew that I had the ability to help you. All it would have taken was a moment of effort on my part, and I could have purged your hatred of Shaw and your rage. But at the time, it wouldn't have helped you, so I refrained from doing so. I came to realize within moments of our meeting, as we were floating in the ocean in Miami and you admitted to always believing that you were alone, that my telepathy wouldn't be what would help you. It would be words and actions that you would respond to most of all, rather than having me shove peace and acceptance down your throat._

_For a time, as we traveled the country, recruiting the others, I started to believe that it was working. You still wanted to get Shaw, but your pursuit of him had become less focused. Even in Russia, and after hearing about the attack on the CIA base, your concern was not for Shaw, but for capturing Emma Frost and making sure the children were all right. I had hope that I was getting through to you, that having a real purpose **besides** your revenge was starting you on the path I so wanted to guide you down. I started to hope that you would realize that you **wanted** to be healed, that you wanted **my** help. Perhaps that was arrogant of me, but you had such an odd balance of darkness and goodness in you, and all I wanted was to help you become the good person I knew you were capable of becoming._

_As I have already mentioned, I had begun to think of you as a brother, so this desire to help you was only natural._

_But I failed. My words were not enough – the mission was not enough for you, Erik. I wasn't strong enough to counter what Shaw had done and what he said to you when the two of you were finally face to face. And once you took the helmet, it was driven home to me just how badly I had failed._

_I have never believed in using my powers invasively. Until I met you, the most invasive thing that I did was convince my mother, stepfather, and stepbrother that Raven had always been part of our family. But when I met you – I was more tempted that I have ever been in my life. I wanted so badly to erase your memories of what Shaw had done to you. I did not, but I do owe you an apology for even considering it. I know that I will probably never know if you could forgive me, but I can live with that. So my friend, I am sorry._

He had to stop again. He needed to distance himself from this; his emotions were too volatile. Of al the people he had known and worked with in his long life, only Charles could bring him to this level of emotion. Again, if he were honest with himself, there had always been some affection in him for the arrogant, smug, wonderful telepath, even after they had parted ways.

No matter how much he had tried to be emotionally detached after Cuba, Charles was the _only_ person who could reach him in this way. It was the reason he had never returned to the mansion after Cuba – if he had, Charles might very well have been able to sway him from his cause, even without the use of his telepathy. It was why, the few times they'd met in person after _that_ day, it had always been a neutral location.

He didn't know what he should feel about this latest confession of Charles'. In a way, he was furious that the telepath had even considered wiping his mind of Shaw – the anger, the rage, and the memories had helped him survive as much as Charles' technique of true focus had. The memories of Shaw had given him a calm clarity when planning out what his Brotherhood needed to do to achieve their goals.

But at the same time, he appreciated that Charles _hadn__'__t_ taken that step – that he'd had enough control and respect for him to refrain from wiping his mind. In a way, it raised his opinion of the telepath even more – which was extraordinary, since his opinion of Charles had been high to begin with. In truth, the only thing he had truly disliked about Charles had been his maddening optimism that mutants and humans could co-exist.

Charles' choice to admit this to him, especially after all these years, was interesting. _Although, __it __really __wasn__'__t __that __long __when __he __wrote __this __letter_, Erik reminded himself. It may have been forty years since the telepath had written this down, but at the time he _had_ it had only been a few months – and the last time that Charles had seen him, he had been on the wrong end of a badly deflected bullet. Who knew what the telepath might have been thinking or feeling when he decided to confess to this? After all, the telepath had specifically mentioned that he wasn't looking for forgiveness. It baffled him.

Erik Lensherr had never been a sympathetic, forgiving, or understanding person by nature. Even before the camps he'd been more stand-offish and quiet than was usual for a child of his age. He'd had a few friends – or so he thought (honestly, it was difficult to remember a time before the camps, so he didn't really bother most of the time). So why would Charles care? The telepath had _known_ what kind of a person he was. It was just…confusing.

But even more confusing was the way the telepath had apparently felt like he _needed _to heal him.

Charles was – had been – a caretaker and a protector. Erik had seen that the first time he'd seen him interact with his sister. The telepath's caring nature had been so obvious, yet so foreign to him. It had continued to be apparent as they assembled their time, in the way Charles had defended Emma Frost – even in the way he'd tried to persuade him _not_ to kill Shaw. Erik supposed that it was – _had __been, __dammit,_ Erik reminded himself – simply Charles' nature.

The inscription he'd seen on the headstone at the mansion had said it all: "_He __was __a __shining __light __to __the __broken __world __he __tried __to __heal.__"_ That was who Charles had been. It was that simple, and that complex.

Shaking his head, he returned to the letter, determined to finish it.

_Erik, I want you to know that you will **always** be my friend. I cannot think of a single thing that you could do that would change that. I will forever care for you as my friend and brother, just like I will forever think of Raven as my sister. I will never stop trying to sway you to my side, just as I am sure that you will never stop trying to win me to yours._

_However, I pledge that I shall **not** use my powers to change your mind. I could, but I won't._

An involuntary smile crossed his face at that, the echo so reminiscent of what the telepath had said to him at the CIA facility years ago to persuade him to stay.

_But I will always try. You are my dearest friend, Erik. I know that you will say that I should not blame myself for not being able to help you, but I cannot help myself. I know you will say that you never asked for my help, which is true, but again, I couldn't refuse to help you that night in Miami._

_In so many ways, I feel as if I failed you, my friend and my brother. Erik, I know I could have helped you, I could have saved you, if you had just let me in. But ultimately, I couldn't protect you from yourself, and you have given up. I let you leave, but in doing so, you have lost all hope for the future. You may have your vision, your ideology…but it will never come to pass. Evil only begets evil, it cannot bring about good. Instead of fighting for peace, you now seek to wage war. You have become Shaw, and I fear that choice will haunt us both for the rest of our lives._

_You left me behind to pick up the pieces, not only of my own life, but the lives of the others. I am the one who will now have to fight to keep our odd little family together. I know that you cared about them, Erik. You have not only abandoned me and taken my sister from me, but you abandoned **them**. They looked up to you as much as they look up to me, but in a different fashion, and why should they not? After all, you were there too; you helped to get them involved, helped them find a place where they felt they belonged. I should hate you for what you did to them, but I cannot._

_So I sit here, in my study, and I watch the clouds pass by, and the golden sunlight glisten off the lake. But some part of me is still cold and untouchable, where even the sunlight cannot warm me – it is the feeling of abject failure I have whenever I think of you, my friend. I could not banish your demons for you; I could not help you escape them._

_As I read back what I have written, I find that I have gotten very off-topic, haven't I? I'm sure you will laugh at this, that a telepath could lose track of his own thoughts. I wrote this letter intending to explain my past to you, to explain why my ideals are so closely held to my chest, but it seems that is not as simple a matter as I hoped it would be. It seems, my friend, that you have had more of an impact on my life in these last few months than any other part of my life except, perhaps, Raven. And it seems that you will always be part of me, in ways that I never even dreamed – a brother, a friend…and someone that I will constantly try to prove myself to. But I think, you will also be the person I will think of as I train my future students – the person that I will try to help them avoid becoming. I respect you, my friend, but I cannot respect your decisions, and I will always be there to stop you from harming others, Erik. With my resolve comes a prayer for you, my friend._

_Each day, as I have struggled to adapt to my wheelchair, I half-expect to see you and Raven return, having seen the error of your ways and the path which your mad lust for vengeance against humans will bring you to. It is only the fact that I cannot smother that tiny flame of hope that keeps me from giving into despair completely. But that tiny flame of hope burns as an example of futility in the silence which you have become to me. And silence is the thing that I fear most of all. My powers enable me to always "hear" if I choose. I never feel alone, because I feel the minds all around me, and I can listen to them at any time I choose. But there is one mind I can no longer reach – yours. And that does frighten me, Erik. It frightens me more than you can possibly comprehend, because it makes me feel…alone, truly alone, for the first time since I was a small child._

_I don't know why our friendship must be strained like this, why fate has decreed that we are to be rivals and in a constant struggle against one another when we should be working together. But I also don't know why you felt that you couldn't trust me and you had to leave me with that silence._

_But for all of that…I forgive you, my friend. All that you've done, everything you will do…it has been forgiven. That goodness is still inside you, my friend. It may be buried deeply, but it is still there. Someday, perhaps when you are least expecting it, it will come out and you will realize everything that you have lost, and you will realize that, at the heart of everything, is a man who was hurt badly and allowed that anger to consume him. The flames of hate have driven you throughout your entire life, but no fire can rage forever. Eventually, its fuel source must run out. And when the flames of your rage have been extinguished, I hope that you will find it within you to return, to embrace the goodness that I know still exists. When you do, know that I will be waiting for you with open arms, welcoming you back into my life and my heart as a long-lost brother._

_I forgive you, Erik. Always remember that I am waiting for you, and that you will always have a home, if you choose to accept it._

_Farewell, my friend._

_Charles Xavier_

Erik found himself lowering the letter slowly into his lap, his throat tightening with tears he didn't wish to shed. He had finished the letter – but Charles had still won this battle. There was no response that he could make, no words that he could put to paper that could equal what Charles had done by writing this letter forty years ago and putting it away until the day that he, Erik, chose to return to the mansion that he had abandoned all those years ago.

He wanted to rail at Charles, wanted to storm back to the mansion in anger and demand an explanation for why Charles had done this to him – but that was no longer possible, because Charles was no longer there. And that was exactly what the telepath had intended. Charles had intended that he would not see this letter until after he had passed on.

_Why __did __you __have __to __be __the __first, __Charles?_ Erik raged. _Why __did __you __have __to __be __so __good, __so __forgiving __to __a __man __who __didn__'__t __deserve __it?_ Why was it that the man who had been filled with so much goodness and peace had to be the first one to fall? Why had fate been so cruel to them?

There was no response to be made to what Charles had written – the only thing he could do was struggle against the despair and the loss that welled up in him as he realized exactly what he had thrown away all those years ago. A home, a future…yes, those had been offered right from the beginning, but it was more than that. He had thrown away a friend and a brother. For forty years he had waged a fruitless war, and now he sat here, in this tiny apartment, his powers destroyed by the _Cure_, watching Charles' dream of peace come to be, and knowing that in a few decades no one would remember how hard he had fought for mutant superiority. What would their lives had been like if he had stayed with Charles and fought alongside him? How could he have believed that he knew what would happen when he had been driven by rage and hatred?

But the future Charles had dreamed about was coming – it could have come so much sooner if he hadn't fought against Charles all these years. And that was a bitter pill to swallow indeed.

Absently he reached for the envelope to put the letter away, but as he pulled it open, another piece of paper fell into his lap – this one just a small piece of note-paper, not the heavy-weight stationary that Charles had written the letter on, but like the letter, the tiny note bore Charles' distinctive, elegant hand in a dark ink.

Erik couldn't stop his hand from trembling as he picked up the tiny note.

_August 7th, 2003_

_My friend,_

_As you will no doubt discover when you finally receive the letter that I wrote for you, it was written a very long time ago. But time has passed both of us, and we have grown and changed in so very many ways. Currently, you sit imprisoned in the plastic cell that you so despise, and I occasionally come to visit you. It saddens me to know that we have been brought to this. Yet, I find that I needed to include this note for you._

_You will not receive my letter until I have passed away, and I have left instructions in my will that Hank is to give you the letter, because I know you my friend. I know that the day will eventually come when you will return to the mansion, if only to pay your respects. When you do, you will find not only a letter, but a gift that I hope you will accept and use in memory of me, and in memory of happier times._

_Charles_

Erik couldn't help looking over at the sideboard where the paper-wrapped box still sat. He did not know what it contained, but he also didn't know if he could bear to deal with anything more from Charles that day.

_The __sooner __I __look __at __it, __the __sooner __I __can __put __it __behind __me,_ he reminded himself. He was still torn, but he pushed himself to his feet and walked over to where the box sat. Hesitantly, he broke the string and carefully tore into the paper. What was revealed was…surprising indeed.

The box was narrow and long, but not deep. The top was made of neat tiles of black and white squares, each square perfectly even as the alternating pattern covered the entire top of the box. The black squares were made of polished iron painted black, while the white squares were made of polished marble. There were hinges along one edge, and along the other a small latch. Carefully, he undid the latch and opened the lid of the box, only to catch his breath in surprise.

The box lid actually lifted completely to lay flat against the sideboard, and nestled inside, in velvet-lined compartments were two sets of elegantly wrought chess pieces – the black ones in iron that had been painted and the white ones again in polished marble.

Almost reverently, he reached in an extracted the black king from its compartment. The piece had solid weight to it, and was durable and would no doubt last for a very long time. The other pieces were equally well-weighted and made, and had no doubt cost Charles a small fortune.

His father had been the one to teach him chess, but it wasn't until he met Charles Xavier and they began their whirlwind journey to find and recruit mutants that he found a partner to play with. Shaw had not been interested in the game, and being constantly on the move, hunting down escaped Nazi criminals didn't lend itself to the leisure to play. But in Charles he had found a chess partner, someone who enjoyed the game as much as he did. Chess had, for a short time, been theirs – a neutral territory where they could discuss everything openly, a place where powers were put aside and it was simply skill and strategy.

In many ways, those games of chess had defined their relationship, and Erik had often found himself thinking of his struggle with Charles as a game of chess, only on a vaster scale. Charles was the white king, while he himself was the black king. Both of them had their armies – the X-Men were the rest of the white pieces, while his Brotherhood was the black. Each battle, each plot and plan was only a small move in an overriding strategy designed to defeat Charles' forces. The game of chess was one in which strategy and careful planning let to victory – as well as sometimes being willing to sacrifice a piece in order to triumph.

Charles had never been able to truly sacrifice one of his own, yet somehow he had triumphed. Or rather – Charles had made the sacrifice himself, rather than allowing his students to make the sacrifice. His legs, his sister…

Yes, a chess set was an oddly appropriate gift – and this was probably the most beautiful one that the telepath could have come up with. Unfortunately, he had no one to play with, now that Charles was gone. So in many ways, it was a wasted gift – though Erik did appreciate the thought behind it.

_When you do, know that I will be waiting for you with open arms, welcoming you back into my life and my heart as a long-lost brother._

_I forgive you, Erik. Always remember that I am waiting for you, and that you will always have a home, if you choose to accept it._

Erik sighed. If only those words in the letter could be true. If only Charles _would_ be there waiting for him; if only the mansion could be home. But no…all he had left now were his memories of his friend, his regrets, and a beautiful chess set, yet no one to play it with.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's Note: Well, I know I said this would be the last chapter of this story, but given the way it has broken down, there will be one more chapter after this. There's a few minor changes in this too…instead of Erik hiding in San Francisco the way he is at the end of X3 (since we see Warren fly past the Golden Gate Bridge before he flies past Erik in the park) Erik is instead still in New York. Also, I made reference to Charles' regaining the ability to walk, but being temporarily unable to due to the power of his own mind. This is a reference to an event from the original Uncanny X-Men comic books from the 1960's, specifically issues 167 and 168.**_

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

><p><em>Four months later…Central Park…<em>

He really was pathetic. Everything he had seen, everything he had _been_, and yet everyday found him coming to the damn park, dressed like a refugee from a retirement community, the chess set from Charles under his arm. He would sit at one of the tables and set up the game, but no one ever came over to join him. So he would sit there for hours, staring at the beautiful set and remembering the many games of chess he had played with Charles and the discussions they had had.

The weather was steadily growing colder, and it would be Christmas again soon. New York was already turning out its finery – elaborate window displays, strings of lights, advertisements for sales and gifts. And what would _he_ be doing? Most likely he'd still be coming to the same damn park, freezing his ass off, setting up a chess game, and sitting there, lost in his memories.

The era of peace Charles had dreamed about was still progressing. There had been a few outbreaks of violence between mutants and non-mutants, but the man who had once called himself Magneto couldn't bring himself to care. He was no longer a mutant, after all, but at the same time he couldn't count himself among the humans either. He hadn't thought of himself as _human_ since he was twelve years old.

Finishing Charles' letter had done nothing to allow him to put the telepath out of his mind, the way he had hoped. Rather, it had only caused him to think of his friend more often. His thoughts were constantly dwelling on the years he had wasted preparing for war, wondering why Charles had felt the need to be so damn noble and so generous with his forgiveness, and thinking about his friend's words about the mansion always being his home.

_Why __can__'__t __I __just __lay __you __to __rest, __Charles?_ he wondered in frustration as he set up the iron and marble set at what was quickly becoming his regular table. _Why __are __you __so __determined __to __haunt __me?_

Absently, he moved a black pawn forward two spaces. Just like him, the pawn was merely a tool in the hands of others, a tool used to lure more powerful pieces into traps. Most people would look at a chess board and believe that the king was the most powerful piece on the board – but in truth, the king was merely a glorified pawn. In reality, the most powerful piece on the board was an honor given to the queen, the king's stalwart defender.

_Which __were __we, __Charles?_ he wondered, not for the first time. _Pawns __or __kings? __And __if __we __were __the __kings, __who __were __our __queens? __Our __defenders?_

Until recently, he would have said Mystique was _his_ queen. She could take so many forms; she could assume the powers of the rest of the king's defenses, direct attention away from him. Like the rook, she could be steady and cold in her resolve. Like a knight, bold and flamboyant in her attacks, and like a bishop subtle, yet strong in defense. Yes, Mystique had been his queen.

Of course, like him, Mystique was no more. Now she was simply Raven, the girl – the woman – he had met so many years ago. Mystique had died, just as he had – at the tip of a syringe, through a drug injected into her blood. The black king and the black queen had fallen, and fallen hard.

_But who then was your queen, Charles? Who was your steadfast defender; who would have laid his or her life down for you?_

Jean? From what he had heard, the girl was certainly willing to sacrifice herself. After all, she'd proved that at Alkali Lake. But then again, she was host to the Phoenix for so many years, and the Phoenix had used her "death" in order to break the psychic bonds that Charles had leashed it with. So perhaps not.

Storm, maybe? She had certainly defended Charles' ideology, and she had the power to be the telepath's defender to the very end. More so, she was willing to defend regular humans, and stand up even to _him_ – such strength of character had deeply impressed him, even though she had been firmly one of Charles'.

He considered the positions of the white and black queens, sitting on the board beside the kings, ready to leap forward in their defense. Yes, it was more than likely that Storm, not Jean, would have been Charles' queen.

A white knight was moved forward to counter the black pawn and provide a threat.

_We have both had our knights, have we not? Other than our queens, any of our followers could have served the roles of knight, bishop, and rook, couldn't they? In that, we were evenly matched…but you played the weaker hand, Charles. You could never think of your students as pawns to be sacrificed._

Slowly his self-played game progressed, each move causing a moment of introspection, just as it had when he had played with Charles. If he concentrated, he could almost imagine the telepath sitting across from him, amiable smile in place as he tried _not_ to hear the strategies being broadcast across the board. Piece by piece, each move therapeutic, the game played itself out, with neither side gaining a clear advantage. The purpose of this game was not for one side to defeat the other handily, after all – it was to bring peace to his troubled mind.

Eventually, of course, even the kings had to take the field of battle. He reached across the board to move the white king out of a trap set up by a black bishop and a black rook, only to pause as something about the configuration of the board and its pieces struck a chord in his mind. He studied the layout carefully. What was so familiar about it?

_Charles sighed and reached to move a piece. "Cuba. Russia. America. It makes no difference. Shaw's declared war on mankind, on all of us. He has to be stopped." The telepath leaned back and reached for his glass of scotch as Erik set his martini down on the table behind him and leaned forward to take his turn._

_He eyed Charles closely. "I'm not going to **stop** Shaw." Charles looked up. "I'm going to kill him." He moved his king forward to capture Charles' bishop. "Do you have it in you to allow that?"_

_He watched his friend as Charles huffed out a little breath and leaned forward again to study the board, although the telepath didn't respond immediately. "You've known all along why I was here, Charles. But things have changed. What started as a covert mission – tomorrow, mankind will know that mutants exist. Shaw, us – they won't differentiate." Charles looked up at that. "They'll fear us. And that fear will turn to hatred."_

"_Not if we stop a war." Charles reply was quiet, but rang with conviction. "Not if we can prevent Shaw. Not if we risk our lives doing so."_

"_Would they do the same for us?"_

"_We have it in us to be the better men," Charles insisted, his bright blue eyes boring into him._

"_We already are!" Erik locked gazes with Charles, trying to make him see, to make him understand. "We're the next stage of human evolution –" Charles was shaking his head, "- you said it yourself!" Charles looked away and swallowed some of his scotch. "Are you really so naïve to think they won't battle their own extinction?"_

_No response._

"_Or is it arrogance?" Erik asked, knowing **that** would provoke a response._

_Charles looked up, his face showing his shock and – for the briefest of moments – a little hurt. "I'm sorry?"_

"_After tomorrow, they're going to turn on us. But you're blind to it, because you believe they're all like Moira."_

"_And you believe they're all like Shaw." Charles met his gaze again. The compassion, caring, and intensity of those eyes was always enough to swallow him in. It was…nice to have someone who cared about him after all these years, but it was such a foreign feeling. But it was because of that care that he had to make the telepath see the truth. To be so convinced of the acceptance of mankind, only to have that shattered…it would destroy everything that was good and innocent about Charles. Erik couldn't let that happen, he had to prepare Charles for what they would be facing the next day._

"_Listen to me, very carefully, my friend." Charles' voice was firm, but there was a tremor in it from the emotion that he was trying to convey with the same quiet intensity he approached everything. "Killing Shaw will **not** bring you peace."_

_He had given up on peace a long time ago, when he watched his mother gunned down in front of his eyes. "Peace was never an option."_

Erik pulled back sharply as the memory crashed into the forefront of his mind. He tried not to gasp for breath, despite the fact that his heart was racing as the emotions from forty years ago swamped him. The last thing he needed was for one of the bystanders to think he was having a heart attack and alert the authorities.

It took him several minutes to calm himself, but he finally got his racing heart back under control and steadied himself against the solid table. As he slowly settled back into his seat, one of the pieces wobbled ever so slightly. At first, he assumed that he'd bumped the board, but none of the other pieces moved at all.

_Could __it __be?_ Hesitantly, he stretched out his fingers towards the piece – the black king, he realized a moment later – and focused on it with all his concentration. Nothing happened. The chess piece stayed stubbornly still.

Charles' voice echoed out of the past just then. "_**Remember, **__**the **__**point **__**between **__**rage **__**and **__**serenity**_." Along with the voice, the memory of standing on the mansion's lawn, gazing at the giant satellite dish as Charles awoke the memory of his mother, and raising Shaw's sub from the depths of the ocean forced their way to the forefront of his thoughts.

The tension in his shoulders bled away as he sought the place in his mind that the telepath had mentioned, his focus sharpening and becoming crystal clear. A tingle started in his fingers – and the iron king trembled ever so slightly.

A smile stretched across his face for the first time in a very long time – the first time since Charles' death, at least, and possibly longer. His powers were returning – Magneto would soon be back on the playing field in the battle between _Homo __sapiens _and _Homo __superior._

A shadow passed by overhead – too large to be a bird, too quickly to be a cloud – and a moment later a white envelope fluttered down to land on his chess board, neatly lying beside the white king. He glanced up and saw a winged mutant climbing back up into the clear blue sky. Something about that mutant was familiar…

Frowning, he picked up the envelope and opened it, extracting a thick sheet of fine writing paper, written on with a bold black ink – in a familiar hand.

_December 15, 2003_

_Erik, my friend,_

_I would appreciate it very much if you would come to see me at your earliest convenience. There is much I would like to discuss with you._

_Charles_

His breath caught in his throat. _Charles__…_

It was impossible! Charles was _dead_! His body had been completely destroyed by Phoenix! There was no way it could be true. Surely this was a cruel joke, or perhaps he was going mad.

But…it _was_ Charles' handwriting. After reading Charles' very long last missive, he would know that elegant script anywhere. And the date on the letter was that very day. Surely no one would be cruel enough to try to trick _him_. He was _certain_ this letter had come from Charles Xavier…but how could it be?

He was torn, however. The last time he had been at the mansion his life had been threatened by Wolverine, Beast, and – however subtly – by Storm. If he went back and it turned out that this really was a cruel trick…

But if Charles _was_ alive…

Making up his mind, he removed the pieces from the board and carefully turned it over, so as not to scratch the iron and marble playing surface on the concrete table. With great care, he placed each piece back into its own, customized, velvet-lined compartment. The last thing he wanted to do was to damage Charles' gift. His heart was pounding again – with anticipation, dread, curiosity…

Once the set was carefully packed away, he tucked it under his arm and headed for the park entrance to catch a cab. He debated with himself about whether or not to return to his apartment and retrieve the helmet that he hadn't used since Alcatraz. He wasn't sure he was comfortable with the idea of facing Charles without it – assuming that Charles really was alive.

But then again…Charles had hated that helmet. Erik remembered the relief on Charles' face when he had seen him at the Senate meeting, and he had not been wearing his helmet. True, Charles had used that opportunity to find out about his plan to send Sabretooth to Canada to grab the girl known as Rogue, but at the moment he had no plans that Charles could take from his mind.

Unbidden, a phrase from the damned letter rose up to the forefront of his mind. _'__And __silence __is __the __thing __that __I __fear __most __of __all__…__But __there __is __one __mind __I __can __no __longer __reach__ – __yours. __And __that __does __frighten __me, __Erik. __It __frightens __me __more __than __you __can __possibly __comprehend, __because __it __makes __me __feel__…__alone, __truly __alone, __for __the __first __time __since __I __was __a __small __child.__'_

He was still torn, but he decided that he would get the helmet and wear it until he knew for sure whether or not Charles was really alive. If this was a cruel trick, at least his mind would be protected from whatever the X-Men were trying to do. But if Charles was at the mansion, he could always remove the helmet to speak to his friend.

He flagged down a cab and gave directions to his apartment. He would pick up his helmet, and then return to the one place that he had thought he would never again set foot.

The Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters.

* * *

><p><em>Two hours later…<em>

The iron gates were just as imposing as they had been the last time, but this time the estate seemed – somehow – more inviting. The last time he'd been here, a gloomy cloud that had nothing to do with Storm or the weather had seemed to hang over the estate, as if the estate itself had been mourning the fallen telepath.

But this time the cloud had lifted. Erik could see Christmas lights sparkling in the windows, wreaths hung on the doors, and lanterns lit the driveway, welcoming people to the mansion. This was a magnificent place that Charles had created, a place where everyone was welcome, mutant and human alike. True, the school itself was only for mutants, but parents, friends, or others who were not mutants were welcome to come and see that the students were prospering, learning control of their gifts, and learning to appreciate peace and cooperation. This had been Charles' dream, and he had brought it to life with hard work, devotion and dedication, and a group of wonderful young mutants to aid him in helping to realize the vision he'd had when they had moved the first group of mutants to the estate from the covert CIA facility in 1962.

Erik had asked the cab driver to drop him off at the edge of the property and he had walked up the private road that joined to the main road until he reached the gates of the school. Now he waited, watching, searching for any sign of the telepath that he hoped had returned. His helmet was discreetly wrapped in his cape and bundled in his arms for the moment. If Charles _was_ alive, the telepath would know that he was here, because he would have sensed Erik's presence as soon as he had crossed the property line.

That was why he loitered outside the gates. Charles would know that he was here, and Charles would give him some sign of where to come if he was alive. He was in no mood to confront Storm, Beast, or Wolverine again. His powers might be returning, since the Cure appeared to be defective, but they still were not back to full health, and he hadn't come here to fight. He had come to see if Charles was still alive and…

Well, to be honest, he wasn't sure what the "and" was. Did he want to berate Charles for that damned letter? Did he want to beg the telepath's forgiveness for causing his death?

Or did he simply want to sit down at a chess board with his old friend and work out their differences as they had so many times all those years ago?

He didn't know…and that frightened him. He was not a man prone to indecision. Once he had a goal, he pursued it single-mindedly. But Charles Xavier was the one person on the earth who could throw his mind into turmoil and make him question everything that he knew, thought, or believed.

He stood at the gates, gazing at the windows, grateful that his eyesight was still sharp and that the mansion was brightly lit enough that he could see inside the building clearly. There was no sign of the telepath, and his heart sank. Despite the note he still clutched in his hand, there was no sign that Charles was really alive – but he had not thought that the X-Men would stoop to such lows as to make him believe that Charles was alive.

_It was a joke. Either that or I'm losing my mind._

_**Oh, my friend. You underestimate my X-Men. I would have thought that you would know better by now.**_

The voice – sophisticated British accent and all – was warm and welcoming, and oh so familiar as it rang in his mind. There was amusement in the tone, along with sadness. But there was no anger, no bitterness, which Erik would have expected, considering the circumstances of their last meeting.

_**I'm not angry with you, Erik. You did what you felt you had to. The Phoenix was too powerful, too full of revenge and hatred for me because I chained it up inside Jean's mind all those years ago. It was never going to allow me to leave that house alive.**_

_Charles? __Is __that __really __you? _Erik wondered silently, his eyes still scanning the windows of the mansion, looking for some sign of the telepath's presence.

_**Of course it's me. Who else would know that you almost always lead with your queen-side knight when we play chess? Or that you prefer your martinis made with four parts red, sweet vermouth to one part gin, and that you garnish it with a cherry?**_

That right there was enough to convince him. Whereas Charles had preferred to drink scotch or brandy when they played chess in the evening, Erik had instead chosen to avail himself of martinis, a drink he had learned to appreciate when he had been on the recruiting trips with the telepath. Charles had suggested it when Erik had gotten tired of drinking German beer, having already been disgusted by what Americans called beer, but hadn't wanted to try anything as strong as what Charles was drinking. Charles had actually suggested the blend that Erik preferred, commenting only that it had been his mother's favorite choice of a cocktail. _Where__are__you,__Charles?_

_**In my office. Come around the back, the alarms are off.**_

_You __don__'__t __trust __your __students __not __to __attack __me?_ Erik asked, knowing that a hint of sarcasm had crept into his tone.

_**Of course I trust them, Erik. However, the younger ones are enjoying their Christmas celebration before they go home tomorrow, and I don't want to worry them. I do believe that I am entitled to a quiet Christmas conversation with one of my oldest friends, don't you?**_

Put that way…Erik carefully approached the gates, which swung open to admit him. No doubt Charles was controlling them from inside his office, given that they closed right behind him. Instead of going directly up the driveway to the front door, where someone might see him and alert the X-Men, he veered off to the left and crossed the grounds until he was around the corner and could see the French doors that lead into Charles' office off the veranda. Only then did he cross quickly to the house. He noted that the large obelisk that had been Charles' marker had been removed, but the smaller one that bore the names of the other three fallen X-Men was still in place.

_**They will always be honored, Erik. But it would certainly be odd to see a grave marker for me when I am alive and well, would it not?**_

Charles had opened the French doors and sat there waiting for him, the metal wheelchair once again filled. Erik couldn't help it as he stopped in his tracks and studied Charles closely. The man hadn't changed at all…he was still bald, still in a wheelchair, and those blue eyes were as intense and welcoming as they had always been.

"Charles…" Erik breathed his friend's name in disbelief and awe. It was one thing to hear the telepath's voice in his mind, but it was quite another to see him alive in the flesh again, especially after watching the way that Phoenix had disintegrated his body into nothing. "How is this possible? I saw you die."

Charles smiled good-naturedly. "I know you did, my friend. However, what the Phoenix didn't count on was the resources at my disposal and the power of my mind. I'm sure you remember Moira MacTaggert?"

"Of course I do. But what does she have to do with this?"

"After Cuba, I used my powers to make her forget everything. I was protecting the boys, and I was trying to protect her as well. If she didn't know where to find us, she couldn't be hurt by people who would go to any lengths to find where we were hiding. I thought that was the last I would see of her, but somehow she tracked us down and demanded that I restore her memories. She had resigned from the CIA – she had seen too much to continue working for them. She stayed here for a time, helping us get the school established, and then she went back to school herself and got a doctorate in genetics. She runs a lab and a hospital on Muir Island in Scotland now. We've collaborated on many projects over the years, and recently she's been working with me to try to help a man who was sent to her by his caretakers. He was born with no higher brain functions except for the barest minimum needed to keep his body alive, but he's really survived only because of advanced life support. His last caretaker recently died, and the hospital he was at refused to continue to provide care for him, so the family's lawyer had him sent to Moira about a year ago."

"How does that explain how you survived?" Erik asked.

"Moira and I had been discussing the feasibility of transferring one psyche, perhaps that of someone who was dying, like a cancer patient or an accident victim into the man's mind. It was an ethical morass, however, so we hadn't gone much further than theorizing what would happen. When the Phoenix attacked me, however, I used my powers and linked myself into the man's mind – transferred my essence into his body. It was dangerous, and done more out of desperation than anything."

"But…you look like you. I mean, you look like your old body."

"An unexpected side effect and one I hadn't anticipated or even truly been aware of. Every person's psyche is imprinted to a specific body. It's how I, as a telepath, can astrally project myself outside of my body and find my way back. When my original body was destroyed and I linked myself to a body that had no psyche attached to it, my more powerful mind took over, and there was a shape-shifting effect – a painful one, I might add. Granted, I was unconscious for most of it while my mind integrated itself to its new host, but I still felt some of it on a very deep level."

Erik shook his head. What Charles was describing was too much for him. He had spent some time around other telepaths and other mutants with a degree of psychic power – Emma Frost being the most notable for a few years after Cuba – but so much of their abilities and the way they viewed the world was a mystery to him despite that experience. But one thing did register. "So this is a completely new, healthy body, which just happens to look like your old one because of a mind-blend and a shape-shifting effect."

Charles nodded.

"So, why are you still in a wheelchair? Did the shape-shifting effect include damaging your spine?"

"Ah, no. My spine is completely intact, however, in this instance, the fault is purely mine. Despite the fact that I couldn't feel anything from my legs, I could still feel pain in my back and the place where the bullet hit me because of the partially severed and traumatized nerves in my spinal cord."

Erik winced at that.

"Don't be upset, my friend. I never blamed you. The pain didn't affect my life in the slightest until recently."

"How so?" Erik asked, wondering how Charles had found the strength to live with what sounded like chronic pain for forty years.

"My mental powers. For the last forty years, I walled that pain away with powerful psychic shields. My inability to walk is, at the moment, psychosomatic. My mind is conditioned to believe that I cannot walk and that I will feel pain if I try, so when I do try, my mind itself causes me pain. It will take time and intense retraining of my mind before I'll be able to walk unaided, so for the time being, I have no choice but to continue to use my chair. Hank has placed me on an intense course of physical and mental therapy, however, so I have no doubt that I will be able to walk again, given time."

Erik had no response to that.

"Erik, my friend…it is cold out here. Please, come inside where it is warm." Charles turned his chair expertly and retreated back inside the house. Erik was left with the option to follow him or to remain standing out in the cold.

He made the logical choice.

He followed.

* * *

><p><em><strong>to be concluded...<strong>_


End file.
